


Out of Joint

by tree_and_leaf



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Gen, Humour, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-25
Updated: 2010-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:31:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tree_and_leaf/pseuds/tree_and_leaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Draco has trouble adapting to the post-war world.</p><p><a href="http://dolorous-ett.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://dolorous-ett.livejournal.com/"><b>dolorous_ett</b></a> asked for 'foul-mouthed hobo Draco Malfoy'; I'm afraid this isn't quite what you requested, but I couldn't fit it into new canon.  I hope you like it, nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Joint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dolorous_ett](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dolorous_ett).



Aubrey's, located tangentially to the Strand, was without question the best wizarding restaurant in England. It was also the sort of place where you normally had to book three months in advance, unless you were the sort of person who no restaurant could turn away, a celebrity, a war hero, seriously old money, something big in the ministry, or some combination of the above.

Until recently, the Malfoys had not been the sort of people who ever had to worry about getting a table; they would turn up when it suited them, and rely on one being available for them. A good table, if not the best.

However, times change, and greatly though it inconvenienced him, Draco Malfoy had been able to adapt to the concept of making a reservation. It was, after all, hardly the greatest change he had had to accustom himself to after the war, and was as nothing compared to the frightful knowledge that it was only the testimony of _Potter_ that had made sure the family kept its liberty, its gold and its estates. It wasn't that Draco was sorry that Old Snake Eyes was gone – quite the reverse – and he was glad to be shot of his Aunty Bella, too. But it was equally clear to him that the wizarding world had been going to the dogs since his fourth year at least, and there seemed no likelihood of improvement in the near future. One simply had to make do, with the maximum amount of style and dignity.

So Draco had made sure that he had secured a table before inviting his fiancée, Miss Parkinson, out to dinner at Aubrey's. She had been gratifyingly thrilled, and had bought a new set of dress robes which showed precisely the right amount of bosom, satisfying both the dictates of current fashion and Draco's own inclinations. Not even their enemies could deny, he thought as he took her arm to Apparate to the restaurant door, that they made a handsome couple.

Aubrey's was the sort of old fashioned, solid wizarding establishment that employed house-elfs as waiters, and they managed to be quite intimidating despite their inbred deference. Nevertheless, Draco was accustomed to their respect, and when Bobbity, the Maitre d', came hurrying over, he initially took it as a welcome mark of distinction. The illusion lasted all of ten seconds.

"Bobbity regrets, Mr Malfoy, that Mr Malfoy's table will not be ready until half-past nine, but if he and Miss Parkinson would like to wait in the bar, they will receive every attention." Bobbity was tall, for an elf, and had an unusually deep, firm voice, which had been known to reduce unsophisticated provincial wizards to heaps of quivering nerves. Draco, however, was neither unsophisticated nor provincial.

"Bobbity, that's outrageous! I have a reservation. I want to speak to the manager at once!"

"Bobbity is sorry, but the manager instructed him that there is nothing else which can be done. Bobbity will have a bottle of excellent wine sent to Mr Malfoy, with the compliments of the house, but the table cannot be ready sooner."

A flush of colour crept across Draco's face; Pansy looked as if she couldn't quite believe what was happening. "I can't accept that – who am I being bumped for? Potter? A Weasley? The Minister? If it's a Quidditch player, I'll be damned if I'll ever spend another Knut here…"

Draco's voice trailed off, as Bobbity said firmly "Bobbity is not at liberty to discuss it," and, simultaneously, Draco saw a gangling youth with what looked remarkably like a part-Veela on his arm, enter the restaurant and be welcomed by a troop of waiters. It was – no, it couldn't be.

But it was. It was Stan Shunpike.

"Him? _Him?_" squeaked Pansy, unbelievingly. Draco, more diplomatic, though even more angry, said "Look, Bobbity, I think you're making a big mistake. Of course I would understand if you needed a table for a war hero like Mr Potter or Mr Longbottom, or for someone senior at the Ministry, but Stan spent the war under Imperius, and still not managing to curse anyone successfully even then. Of course, I deeply regret my minor involvement in the appalling things the Death Eaters did – and I'm sure everyone remembers that Harry Potter himself testified that my mother's actions were instrumental in his final victory, for which I am deeply thankful, and I am pleased that consideration is being shown to some of Voldemort's victims, but…"

He paused. Something seemed to have gone wrong with that sentence. Bobbity took advantage of the pause, his eyes wide. "Then Mr Malfoy does not know?"

"Know what?" said Draco impatiently.

"That after Harry Potter saved Mr Shunpike's life, Mr Shunpike threw off the Imperius, but remained among the Death Eaters as a spy and passed information to Potter Watch and to the Order of the Phoenix? That he captured Yaxely and Jukes, and killed Fenrir Greyback's right-hand werewolf? That-"

Draco, who had been in a nursing home suffering from what was euphemistically called 'nervous trouble' – otherwise known as terror of the Ministry – for several months after the end of the war, gaped. Pansy, however, had recovered.

"Yes, yes, very laudable, I'm sure" she said poisonously. "However, this is no way to treat old customers. I'm disgusted. Draco!"

"Dear?"

"It was sweet of you to invite me to dinner, but I've been thinking recently – Aubrey's is so dreadfully stuffy and dull, and the service is appalling. Actually, I've heard there are so many better places to eat in Muggle London. I'm sure it's going to be the next big thing. Let's go out in the Muggle world!"

Draco agreed, because it was the least humiliating way out of the situation. He took his leave of Bobbity stiffly, thinking once again that the world was, indeed, going to the dogs.

He was even more sure of this after it took a discreet Suggestibility Charm – not, _strictly speaking_, illegal – to get them into anywhere half-decent, and even then Pansy, who had refused to transfigure her robes, as they were never the same afterwards, was the object of impertinent and intrusive glances from their fellow dinners, who seemed to think she was inappropriately dressed.

Yes, the world was going to the dogs, and the fact that the bottle of Chateau Petrus they drank at the Muggle restaurant was far superior to any wine either of them had ever tasted somehow made things worse. Truly, Draco muttered, the times were out of joint.

His mother, to whom he had addressed the complaint, thought, but didn't say, that what was chiefly out of joint was Draco's nose.


End file.
